Never Ask
by WildMeiLing
Summary: Something I came up with when I imagined what gave Clarisse courage to ask Joe, in front of a cathedral full of people, to marry her, and what gave her hope that he might say yes.
1. Chapter 1

_Here it is! The one I've been toying with (or has it been toying with me?) for absolutely AGES (or, like, a month). I was fortunate to have, not one, but two prodigiously talented writers take a look at this story as I got it ready to post. Thank you very much, Little Obsessions and Marjorie Nescio, for taking the time to read, offering feedback and encouragement, and patiently allowing me to bounce ideas off you. I am happily in your debt._

 _While I'm on the subject of gratitude, thanks to all who stop by to read this. If you feel inclined to leave a review, I thank you for that as well._

 _Of course, these characters aren't mine. Some lines in the last chapter are right from_ PD2 _. There are quotes from_ PD1 _peppered throughout the first two chapters, and one rather muddled version of a delightful quote from "Rubaiyat" by Omar Khayyam._

 _All three chapters, ready and posted at once! This first chapter assumes the ill-fated conversation between Clarisse and Joe that ended so badly - when Clarisse was reviewing place settings and music selections for Mia's wedding reception - was followed by an even worse one later in the evening; and it picks up on the morning of the following day._

* * *

"Is that for Her Majesty?"

"It is," replied Mrs. Kowt.

Joseph took a quick glance around the kitchen. It was full of people, but they were all occupied with a multitude of tasks. The housekeeper took care of Clarisse's breakfast tray herself, and her body blocked it from general view as she fussed over the tray for the sake of presentation.

He waited until her busy hands ceased their activity and were ready to grip the sides of the tray, then he laid a single rose across the center. Mrs. Kowt frowned.

"Did that throw off your culinary feng shui?" he asked snidely.

"What have you done?" she shot back, choosing to ignore his remark.

His eyebrows arched defensively. "I haven't done anything," he protested. He was lying, of course, but he still resented the fact that she had jumped to that conclusion.

"Hmm." Her eyes narrowed. "She broke a wine glass in her suite last night."

What? When had she…? "Everyone has a clumsy moment now and then," he deflected vaguely.

"Against the wall?" Mrs. Kowt countered smugly.

Ah. He was even more nervous now, knowing he had left in her in a rare object-throwing state of mind. "So it was a very clumsy moment." He turned to leave the kitchen. Wherever this conversation was going, he didn't want to follow it.

"I don't suppose she was aiming at your head?"

"You know what I miss?" he asked, pausing in the doorway. "I miss the old days, when everyone around here knew their place and stayed in it. Good day, Mrs. Kowt."

"I would imagine you rather like _your_ new place." If she saw soul-piercing doubt tighten the corners of his eyes, signifying that his words of rebuke were directed at himself as much as anyone else, she didn't let on. "Good day, Mr. Romero."

It was an unprecedented conversation. No one on the staff openly acknowledged the non-professional aspect of the relationship between the queen and her head of security. However, in these days leading up to Mia's hasty wedding, everyone was behaving out of character. Nerves were frayed, tempers were flaring, feelings were hurt, voices were snapping, and patience was worn thin all over the place. There wasn't a soul exempt from this phenomenon. _Pre-wedding jitters_ , Mia called it - an ironically harmless-sounding name.

Joseph hurried along his path. He fought the urge to veer off toward Clarisse's suite, determined to give her some space. To let her absorb his gesture of apology over breakfast. In the meantime, he headed for the security hub to start the first meeting of the day. Over the past week, they had been occurring twice daily as the security plan was increasingly honed and tightened. This meeting, not two days before the wedding, should be relatively short. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the plan was pretty much locked in, and everyone was getting familiar with their part. Ten minutes, fifteen tops, and he would be on his way…

Thirty-seven minutes later, Joseph cursed unforeseen circumstances, and made a beeline for the royal suite to talk to Clarisse for the second time since he'd run out on her the previous afternoon.

He passed the footman standing guard at the outer entrance, then practically jogged down the private corridor leading to her apartment. He nearly collided with a maid backing out of the door with Clarisse's breakfast tray. He grumbled dismissively at her nervous and unwarranted apology (he was the one careening about, after all) as he glanced at the tray. Almost nothing had been touched, including the rose.

Impatiently, he waved on the maid before entering the sitting room. He pushed the door shut behind him, eager for privacy in order to begin again the conversation that had gone so horrendously wrong the evening before. The conversation that was supposed to have fixed how he handled the previous afternoon's conversation.

Now all the conversations needed fixing.

She knew he was there, he had no doubt. But she leaned against the doorway to the balcony, not giving any indication that she planned to turn around.

He had a bad feeling about this. She had had an entire night to dwell on their argument, to consider the comments he had flung at her in anger. He had watched them hit their mark, watched as heartbreak registered in her eyes; then he had tried to take them back.

He had been hurt, and had wanted the satisfaction of letting her know.

There had been no satisfaction. Only a sinking, nauseating feeling as he watched the uncalculated effect of his malicious efforts - the shattering of something fragile, without which their bond could not survive.

 _Please, God, let her let me take it all back now. Please. Don't let it be too late._

"Clarisse," he uttered fervently, as if her name were the _Amen_ to his prayer.

She finally turned around. "I see you've been vandalizing my rosebushes again," she said lightly. She was trying to tease him, but though her lips tipped up in a small smile, her eyes harbored the sadness from the night before. And something else he couldn't name...

"Just trying to bring some of their beauty indoors. And to let you know I've been thinking of you. Are you going to let me apologize today?"

She closed her eyes wearily. "Please, Joseph, let's not talk about this now."

He walked over to her, disregarding her obvious attempt to keep space between them. "If not now, when?"

"Later. After the wedding. I have neither the time nor the energy -"

"We can't wait until then. We both have to be well-rested for the ceremony and the reception, and I don't know about you, but I've already lost a night of sleep over this. Please, can't I tell you I'm sorry, and I love you, and let's start putting this whole unfortunate episode behind us?"

Anger flashed in her eyes, momentarily replacing the despair. "You think it's that easy?"

He shook his head. "No, certainly not easy. But simple. The simple truths are that I am sorry and I love you. Let me give you this simple apology to get us through the next few days. After which time," he reached out to her, daring to caress her, to run his hand down along her arm to her hand, to grasp it tenderly and pull her toward him, "I fully intend to issue the apology you deserve. To show you, in any way I can, just how much I love you with everything I am. We'll escape from here, even if for a few hours, I promise, and -"

"Where exactly do you think we would go?" she asked skeptically.

Despite himself, he felt a small smile tug at his lips. "I don't know. Anywhere. Somewhere secluded. We don't need much as long as we have some space. And maybe some wine." His smile widened into the one he knew she couldn't resist. "And a loaf of bread. 'And thou beside me singing in the wilderness.'…"

He had no idea of the Homeric effort it took for her to keep from succumbing to him. She turned her head as he tried to kiss her, and twisted her hand out of his. "I can't, Joseph. I can't do this to you anymore."

"Clarisse -"

"It isn't fair to you."

"I told you I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it."

"But you said it."

"Of course, I said it. I was angry, and I say stupid things when I'm angry. You know this about me. I've always done it, and I'm ashamed to say, despite my best efforts, I probably always will."

"All these years," she said, refusing to meet his eyes. "All these years, I've been saying the same thing, and you've always told me no, you won't leave, this is where you want to be."

"This _is_ where I want to be." The strange tone in her voice and the distance between them, no longer just physical, were scaring him.

"Not last night. Half your life spent on a masochistic, dead-end relationship. And with a woman content to keep you hidden in shadows." He flinched at her recollection of his words, and she moved her gaze toward him in time to see it. "Well, you did say it. And you were right." Her voice faltered and her eyes glistened. "But only about the first part."

"I was angry and hurt. I was not right."

"I've always tried to tell you that you deserve more, but I never bothered to truly convince you."

"I don't need convincing. Look at me." She had turned from him again, staring at something he could not see. "I was wrong to push you yesterday afternoon. I was wrong to accuse you last night. I know you're not ashamed of me. And I realize my timing was bad. After all these years, I got excited." He gave her a smile he hoped was light-hearted and self-deprecating. "Can you blame me for that last bit?"

"No. I don't blame you. I blame only myself." Her eyes closed again and her next words came out in a whisper. "I have been so selfish."

He felt his insides grow cold. He knew where she was going with this, and he knew what she could do when she put her mind to it. Years of trying to prove his love and her worthiness - dashed in a weak moment of angry recrimination. "Don't." He grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him. "You chose me, remember? You told me last night. After a lifetime of never being able to choose, you _chose_ me. You chose us! And I want to be chosen," he finished desperately.

"I had no right to choose. Choice is an option for people who have their own identities, who control their own destinies. Genovia is my identity. Genovia is my destiny. That is all I know." She shook her head. "I chose us, yes, and at what cost? I gave us both hope that I had no right to bestow."

"I don't care. You want me, and I want you. We will figure out what that means."

"It means nothing! Haven't you heard anything I've been saying?"

"Last night, you weren't saying this!"

"I've been thinking since last night."

"And this is the decision you've come to?"

"For the love of God, Joseph, it's not my decision!"

"Yes, it is!" He turned away from her, rubbing his face with his trembling hands. His breath was ragged as he tried to inhale deeply. He spun back around, knowing he was on borrowed time, her not-decision having already been made. "Mia will be queen -"

"And I will be what? They pluck the crown off my head and drop it onto hers, and you think it's over and done with? You think I will suddenly be the person you have deserved all these years? You think we can go forward with my inability to change and your resentment -"

"I'm not asking you to change, and I don't resent it, dammit!" He bit back his tongue. His temper was part of why they were even in this place. He searched for other words, other arguments, but nothing came to help him plead his case.

Pleading. Yes, that's all he had left.

"Please, Clarisse."

But she was gone, retreating behind her icy façade and shutting him out with the queen's mask he had observed for years. He thought of all the times he had been thankful to not be on the receiving end of that look, and every fear, every doubt, every bit of dread came to fruition in this moment. "I cannot do this anymore," she said quietly. "I will not."

"Oh, God. Clarisse, don't do this. Don't do this to us." He choked on the words as he searched her expression for some chink in her armor. There was none.

"I am sorry."

"I don't accept this." He took her face between his hands and pressed his lips to hers. "Please," he said, speaking the words into her mouth, "kiss me back. Just once."

He felt her hands slide up his arms, over his shoulders, and around to his chest. There they stayed, and just as he began to hope, he felt them press against him as she pushed him away. She walked past him back to the balcony. "Please," she said, her back to him once more, "go."

No! This could not be happening. "How can you -"

"Please! Just go."

He knew there was nothing more he could say. "Do you mean 'go from this room,' or 'go from my life entirely'?" The question had been rhetorical sarcasm, but the moment it was out of his mouth, he knew the answer. He knew from the way his stomach twisted into knots, from the chill that crept through him.

She shook her head. She was trying, but didn't have the strength to deliver the final blow.

"I see," he said. Suddenly, everything felt surreal as he stared fully into his bleak future. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded tinny and faraway to his own ears. "It will take some time. I will wait until after the coronation."

"Take whatever time you need."

"So kind of you. Thank you, Your Majesty."

He watched her from behind, watched her react to his undisguised pain and bitterness, watched her arm move as she pressed her hand to her stomach - that thing she did when she was hurting profoundly. It was how he knew she didn't want this. She was falling apart as quickly and completely as he was. Yet her mind was made up.

On some level, it always had been.

In a sudden moment of perfect, chilling clarity, he realized there had never been another answer for her to give.

On some level, he had always known.

He did the only thing he knew she would let him do, the only thing that made sense.

He left.

* * *

Note:

 _I believe what Joe was trying to say was:_

"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,

A Jug of Wine, A Loaf of Bread - and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wilderness -

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!"


	2. Chapter 2

She burst through the double doors of Clarisse's private sitting room with typical Mia gusto.

"Grandma!" she panted. "Is it true? Is Joe leaving?"

"He is." The answer was small and quiet, coming from the direction of the sofa. It was only then Mia realized the entire space was saved from complete darkness by one small lamp on a bookshelf near the doorway. She blinked, adjusting to the lack of light, and made out the fuzzy shape of her grandmother. She blinked again, not believing her eyes. Clarisse, queen of Genovia, was sitting in her silk pajamas with her bare feet on the sofa, her knees drawn up so her chin rested on them and her arms wrapped around them.

The most capable, unflappable woman Mia had ever known was the picture of hopelessness, and it scared the hell out of her.

"Grandma?" she ventured more calmly, slowly making her way to Clarisse. Her eyes shifted to Mia. Her mouth smiled, but it was such a failure that Mia nearly cringed. "He promised to stay for a year after the coronation, to supervise the transition," Mia said softly. "Why would he do this? Just…leave?"

"He wouldn't do that to you, darling. And I'm sure if you asked nicely, he would stay on a little longer. He's never been able to deny you anything." She smiled, and this time it was real. No less eerie, but at least genuine. Except for changing her expression, she had yet to move a muscle.

"But why -"

"Because I told him to leave."

Caught up in her observation that her grandmother was steeped in a sadness so profound, the words didn't register right away. Her eyes widened in disbelief as she realized what Clarisse had told her.

"But why?" she repeated unknowingly as she lowered herself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of Clarisse. The queen didn't mention one word about princesses and sitting on tables.

"Because it was selfish of me to keep him here. He has given me everything. I have nothing to offer him. I never have."

Mia understood. In fact, it startled her on how many levels she understood. Despite feeling woefully inadequate most of the time, she knew how much she had grown in the past five years in order to arrive at a place where she could relate to a woman she had once thought cold and distant and infinitely higher than she.

She knew about Joe and her grandmother.

She knew, finally, about the unromantic nature of her grandmother's arranged marriage to Rupert. That, for Rupert, there had been others.

She knew the chance to be queen was one of the world's most rewarding experiences. But she harbored no illusions, and accepted that it was also one of the world's loneliest.

On the eve of her own arranged marriage, preceding her own coronation, she knew Clarisse meant she had indulged in the love of someone who could not belong to her.

She also knew if there was one person who ever lived and deserved happiness, it was Clarisse Marie Mignonette Renaldi.

"You are the least selfish person I know," Mia said, her quiet tone in no way masking the depth of feeling in her words. "And you have _so much_ to offer."

She held her hands out to Clarisse, who stared at them almost shyly. Mia smiled. Slowly, Clarisse unclasped her own hands from their resting place on her forearms, and reached for her granddaughter's. As soon as the younger hands wrapped around the older ones, the effect rippled throughout the rest of Clarisse, whose body unfolded and relaxed.

Mia would never know what made her do it, but as Clarisse's feet came to rest on the floor, she slid seamlessly to her grandma's newly revealed lap and tucked her head under Clarisse's chin. She felt Clarisse's arms wind around her, holding her firmly in place.

"Probably you don't want to talk about it," Mia said.

"You have become remarkably perceptive, my dear," Clarisse replied warmly, with no hint of sarcasm in her teasing.

"But maybe, just to satisfy my own inappropriate curiosity, I could ask a few simple questions -" She felt her grandmother's chest lift slightly, filling with air to press out a protest, so she hurried on to finish. "- and then it'll be done! I promise. Nothing too personal. No gory details. Really."

Joe wasn't the only one who had trouble denying the princess what she wanted. "Alright," she relented, the gathered breath releasing in a sigh.

"Was it an argument?"

"Of sorts."

"Who started it?"

"He did!" It slipped out quickly, sounding sharper and more wounded than she had intended. "Well, maybe we did. We both said a lot, but sort of...picked and chose what we listened to, mostly all the worst things."

"Is he sorry?" It was a safe bet she would get "yes" as an answer. Every time Mia had managed to catch a glimpse of Joe throughout the day, he'd had the same haunted expression that his queen did now.

"Yes." There it was, barely audible.

"Are you?"

Mia knew the nod of her head was the only response Clarisse could manage.

She took a deep breath, summoning all her courage against what she feared to be the truth. "Is it my fault?"

"What?"

"This whole thing with Nicholas, and other things like the wooden leg and the chicken in the throne room, and then this morning with the video footage..."

"Our fight was over before we heard about that. Well, the last part, at least." Clarisse surprised both of them when she chuckled. "Anyway, my darling, that is a mess of your very own. What could that possibly have to do with ours?"

"Maybe you don't think you can be with him because you have to be with me."

"Oh Mia." The crack in Clarisse's voice unnerved her to no end. "No. You will find your footing. You will succeed, and I know that. It's just..." Mia was patient while Clarisse found the words for something she had never spoken aloud. "Joseph knows who I am apart from Genovia, from all this. And he's the only one. Not even I know." She felt Clarisse's face press against the top of her head, felt her mouth turn into a sad smile. "He is convinced he wants that woman, whoever she is. I am not convinced she even exists."

They were both quiet for awhile. Mia found herself thinking how different this hugging was from the first time she had been embraced by her grandmother, the day she told Clarisse she would not assume her role as princess. Her mind ambled along the memory of that afternoon. She had been afraid to tell her, to lose - not only an entire country - but the little bit of family that had been restored to her after her father's death. But Clarisse had reassured her. _"Oh my dear. You are first and foremost my granddaughter."_

 _My granddaughter._ For Mia to be a granddaughter first and a princess second, Clarisse had to be a grandmother before she was a queen.

 _"You are an extraordinary person,"_ she had told Clarisse. She said it again now.

"You are an extraordinary woman, Grandma. And I'm pretty sure that's the reason you are an extraordinary queen. Not the other way around."

Mia felt Clarisse's arms tighten around her, and another sigh - this one shaken by unshed tears - escaped into her dark hair. "Thank you," Clarisse whispered.

"He loves you," Mia said simply. "And you love him."

"That's hardly enough to ensure a fairy-tale ending."

"Maybe there's no such thing. Maybe no one gets a fairy-tale ending." She lifted her head to look directly at Clarisse. "It may not be easy. It may not be pretty. But it is _real_. Grandma, tomorrow I am going to marry a man with whom I am not in love. Just like you did." She pushed on, determined not to be tripped up by the pain in Clarisse's eyes. "And there is no guarantee I will ever know anything else. Statistically, _you_ shouldn't know anything else. Maybe that's part of what makes you doubt it," Mia mused, almost to herself, before shaking her head and returning to her original thread. "You have the opportunity to love and be loved for _real_ , Grandma. If he's sorry, and you're sorry, I think you should go for it. Don't send him away."

"What if it's too late?" she murmured, not unaware that they were two of the least expert people to be advising one another in relationship matters.

Mia, also aware of their combined lack of inexperience, had to laugh. "I may not know much about these things, but Joe has been waiting an awfully long time, and he looks pretty miserable to me. I think he would be open to reconciliation."

"I don't know what he meant more - the things he apologized for, or the apology."

"We all say stupid things sometimes. Well," she grinned, "present company excluded. Take it from me: stupid things slip out way easier than sincere apologies. And Joe is nothing if not sincere."

"It just all seems so…" Clarisse frowned, and Mia watched her usually eloquent grandmother at a loss for words for the second time in the space of a single conversation. "…broken. Something's broken between us, and I'm not sure how to move forward. Or if we can."

"Some things are worth fixing. And you're not going to find another Joe Romero. He's kind of a limited edition."

"I was groomed from childhood for marriage to your grandfather. When I finally made my vows, I made them, not only to a king, but to an entire country. I've never simply been someone's life partner."

"Then you should give it a go. It's healthy to try new things."

"He could have a life with someone else that would be far easier than the one he'll have with me."

"Sure, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, you're pretty one-of-a-kind yourself."

Clarisse looked into pleading, optimistic eyes, and the image of her granddaughter grew blurry.

"It's okay if you need to cry, Grandma."

She let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "My father always told me not to cry."

"But you've been hurt." Both of them knew it was not just an argument, but years of loneliness and sacrifice to which Mia referred. "So you just go ahead and cry. Besides," she added, "it's your turn."

Mia's gentle permission overrode Clarisse's weakening defense against the onslaught of emotion and, for the first time in a very long time, she cried in the comfort of another person's arms.

Mia held onto her grandmother - the woman she looked up to and adored and feared more than any other person - and treasured the trust that afforded her this intimate glimpse into her inner life. She wondered more fully at the depth of Clarisse's sacrifice. She marveled at her mastery of the art of bearing up flawlessly so no one would ever detect her wounds, the fissures that had lain beneath a mask of graceful and unfaltering regal composure. For years, it had seemed unfair to Mia that Clarisse, unnaturally poised and icy calm, expected her to bend her own boisterous personality to fit within such impossible restraints. But now, seeing Clarisse's own struggle, she finally realized bending was necessary for anyone in her position. Necessary, and not so impossible.

Nestled on Clarisse's lap in the semi-darkness of the royal chambers, she learned a great deal more than about being a queen than had ever been covered in a single lesson.

It would be a turning point in both their lives.


	3. Chapter 3

The words came into the ear of everyone who was wired, and not one of them detected the hint of irony in them. "Just because I didn't get my fairy tale ending doesn't mean you shouldn't."

Had he heard the princess correctly? Was she mad?

Everyone with an earpiece waited with bated breath. No one doubted what his answer would be. It was the queen who had them all wondering.

In the meantime, he inhaled deeply and tried to maintain his somber composure. It was easy enough. Though his heart was thrumming and his soul fought to break forth from the shadows into the great, sparkling light of day, he was able to keep his head up and his eyes forward. Easy enough - because she would never ask.

In a setting of absolute privacy, Clarisse would never ask. Assuming they had made up from their series of arguments, she would still not ask.

Now here, in a cathedral full of people, the two of them hardly having spoken to each other in the past two days, there was no way. Not at the risk of everything she had dedicated her life to. She would never ask, and he understood.

If he could take back the last three days - and with them, every angry word and ounce of bitterness and measure of self-pity of his, every vestige of stubbornness and last doubt of hers - she would not ask.

Even still, he wished he could take them back. He knew what she had endured over the last thirty days would have broken lesser men. He knew what it had done to her to see Mia accept an arranged marriage. He knew her adversaries had been breathing down her neck. He knew how much Philippe had infused her thoughts as she prepared his daughter for the role he never had a chance to fill.

He knew what pain she had been facing these past few weeks, and he had added to it. He should have been protecting her from it. He was supposed to be her protector.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself, and they were both to blame. Or perhaps, if there truly had never been another possible ending, there was no point in assigning blame. It didn't matter now. Their relationship had been born in shadows, and the shadows had ultimately claimed it.

She would say something to put off Mia, who could expect a scolding later on. Anyone who had inadvertently listened in on the conversation would pretend it hadn't happened, but he would be reminded of it in their covert glances, their poorly concealed pity.

Not for long though, he reminded himself. She had asked him to leave, and he would comply.

He waited to hear her voice in his ear responding in no uncertain terms to Mia's insane suggestion.

 _Nope. Not in a million years_ , his head told his heart.

Wait. She was giving the earpiece and microphone back to Charlotte without having mustered more than a half-hearted, "Oh."

 _Will. Not. Happen._

She was turning toward him, her hands fluttering nervously as they tugged and smoothed her jacket.

 _She won't._

She walked over to him.

 _Sweet Mother of Mercy. Will she?_ his heart bleated hopefully.

"Joseph?"

 _Don't be ridiculous,_ his head scolded _. It's nothing. Keep it professional._

"Dear Joseph."

 _NO. Seriously?_ His head was in denial, his ears couldn't believe it, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Am I too late in asking you to accept my hand in marriage?"

Without a single _I told you so_ , his heart beat with joy, and just like that, silenced everything in him that was sensible.

A simple question. Easy? No, not at all. But simple. After a lifetime of pride and duty and complicated rules, simple was beautiful.

So was she, from the inside out, as she stood before him, heart laid bare in her proffered hand.

A thousand thoughts and emotions and words jumped up and down inside him, all begging for release. Those things could wait just a little longer. For now, to maintain a semblance of decorum, he opted for honest and simple.

"I thought you'd never ask," he replied.

And all the shadows fled.

The End


End file.
